100.000

Your heart beats over 100.000 times a day, you so often think about stopping it. As if that would make the world better. As if in this world 100.000 heartbeats don't mean a thing. They do, so appreciate every one of them.

Almost a quarter of us skip lunch daily, trying to trim the size of out waist, but do we forget that we have a whole generation looking up to us, and 80% of children age 10 are afraid of being fat, well how wouldn't they be?

50% of women age between eighteen and twenty five would rather be run over by a truck than be fat, but for lord's sake, ladies imagine how ugly the tire marks would be on your skin if, despite all your hopes and wishes you somehow manage to survive?

Little girls are more afraid of being fat than they are of nuclear war, cancer, or losing their parents. But I guess it is normal, since they themselves are the only thing they have to look at in the mirror, they were taught since they left the womb: that they are little princesses waiting for prince charming, so they have to be beautiful to attract one. Why would they ever have anything else but their looks to offer?

Some maybe tried to teach them that that is not all that matters, but what does it even matter, since whenever they bring to school a book instead of a pocket mirror, they get laughed at for believing that they could ever be anything more than a thin waist and a pretty face.

So they spend half of their 100.000 heartbeats wanting it to stop.
The other half they spend trying to pick up little pieces of their confidence and dignity, gluing them together with love they have for themselves, but if they don't have enough then it all just falls back apart.

But I guess if a nuclear war starts, at least I will still have my pretty face.

Beauty

I remember very vibrantly
The first time I could look in the mirror and say
"Damn! You're hot!"
I was still an XL then, but that doesn't matter.

Look, I'm not here to tell you that looks don't matter.
Don't be fooled.
Your looks will determine 70% of happiness in the first half of your life
So yes, appearance is important.

But what I want to tell you is that
Nobody knows what beauty looks like
Actually, scratch that!
Everybody knows what beauty looks like!

To me, beauty is the girl with
Red hair and green eyes
Who wears confidence like her second skin.

To you, beauty is the sun kissed blond
With abs of steel that dances around in a bikini.

To you, beauty is the shy overweight guy
Who plays the guitar ever so silent,
But always loud enough for you to hear.

To you, beauty is the ambitious girl
Who just won't get her head out of the books

To you, beauty is the guy in old converse shoes
Who refuses to get politics out of his
Messy, blond hair covered head.

To you, beauty is the guy who sits quietly in the corner
But when he talks about something he's passionate about
His eyes could light up the sky.

The thing is... I don't know what beauty is to you
But I will tell you what it should be

To you, beauty should be
Whatever you see in that mirror.
So go take a long, hard look.

Cicmila

The Perfect Look

This dress. It's perfect. I know it is, they said so in a fashion magazine last week. It's black, small.
My legs are showing. And they're not perfect. I like them, but others don't, so a pair of tight stockings should cover them up good enough.
My feet are too small, not proportional. I took shoes a few sizes bigger and then filled the top with cotton wool. I hate heels, but they're recommended with my perfect dress.
I saw a makeup look in a magazine too. I bought all the makeup. It's a lot. I don't recognize myself in the mirror. My hair is curly. I like my curls. Now they're gone. It's all straight. It's better like this.
I have big sparkly earrings that pull my ears because they are too heavy. I hide the cuts on my arms with a pair of gloves. The sparkly bracelet is poking my arm, but it looks nice.
I stand in front of the mirror. My neck is all plain except for a medallion. It's my mothers. I took it off. It doesn't go with the dress. I miss knowing my mother. I tie a little black silk scarf around my neck.
I carry a little clutch. It's empty, I don't need it. But everyone carries it, so I have to have one myself.
The bell. He's here. I open the door and greet him with a light kiss on the cheek. I put on a smile and close the door.
"You are beautiful.", he says.
Of course I am...
Right.
Me...

Cicmila

Perfect

Inside of me, lies a demon.

It's ugly and small, and it feeds on my fears and doubts. I hate it, and it loves it, because my hate makes him even bigger.
If it's one of those days when it's cold outside, and I just don't feel like even getting out of bed, those are the days it loves the most.
It speaks. It tells me I'm not good enough, doesn't let me get to my reasons to live.
But it's not all that bad. I hate it so much I often do things I know it'll dislike: I take care of myself, I love myself, I help out others. That's my little way of rebellion. That's how, in a way, the demon helps me. It makes me push myself more and strive for perfection. It only tells the truth, but if I'm perfect, there's nothing it can say.
...Right?
That's what I think, so I do my best to live my life the way I find perfect. But, the more things I change to perfect, the more new things it finds. It's a fight for survival, I guess. Only one of us can win, and it's a never-ending battle.
Today, I've lost the fight.
I know because I'm alone, in a dark corner of the room, crying.
Today, it got me, and now my tears are like an elixir to it. I hate it.
And that makes it stronger.
Today I've lost the fight.
But tomorrow is another day.
Another fight.
Tomorrow, I can win.
Tomorrow, I can be...

...Perfect.

Cicmila

Grey

It's dark and grey. The whole world, washed out of color. The people, washed out of emotions.

A grey girl with a grey scarf walks past a grey boy, with a grey cap.

A man sits on a grey bench, next to a grey stone.

A grey sky, with a grey sun. Grey birds, silent. The grey world, lost.

A grey girl in a grey room, with a grey notebook opened before her. A grey pen in her hand. A grey bow on her head. She wishes to write, but the past four notebooks she could fill with only one thing: emptiness. She dreams of something more, but there's nothing more to dream of. 

Or... What if there is?

She ran to her bedside table and opened one of the drawers. Inside, a grey candle in a jar. She took it out, putting it on the table near the window. She lit the candle, shining out bright, grey light. She took her grey pen and started writing.
Her hand was flying over the papers in all directions, writing out words she didn't know the meaning of. Then she took the papers, folded them, and put them in the candle jar.
It burned, oh how it burned! In colors of red and orange, yellow and pink! Oh how it burned!
Then the wind blew from the window, swirling around the room, getting in the jar and out, carrying the ash with it.
It flew.
The girl opened her eyes, and lost her breath. Her rosy skin, green eyes and pink cheeks were looking back at her from the reflection in the window.
Hope. Happiness.

It flew.
The old man spotted a red rose and picked it up, placing it next to the silver stone. "Goodbye, my love. I will see you soon", he says.
Freedom. Trust. Loyalty. Strength.

It flew.
A girl ran to catch the red scarf that got carried away by the wind. It lands before the feet of a boy with a yellow cap. He picks it up for her. "Is it yours?", he asks. "Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you.", the girl replies. "Please, it was my pleasure. My name is...."
Beauty. Confidence. Love.

It flew.
The sun shining with unimaginable colors, the blue sky and colorful birds singing all around them. The once grey world, now colored. The people once washed out, reborn, full of life, happy.
Color. Emotion. Music. Nature.

It flew.
What did it fly over to you?

Cicmila